


No Sweeping Exits, Or Offstage Lines

by threemeows



Series: Wild Horses [6]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Genre: always and forever lara jean, p.s. i still love you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-25 04:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16654630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: Scenes from Lara Jean and Peter's amended contract.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Blend of movie and book-verse. Part of Wild Horses. Blah blah blah ...

Peter hears the laughter as he’s jogging up the stairs. “Okay who got the party started without – ”

 

He stops dead in tracks in the doorway. Seated in the shared living room, surrounded by his friends, is probably the last person he expected to see.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, flatly.

 

“What?” Dad says, leaning back against the couch, hands spread. His grin his easy, relaxed. Like he always drops by announced at his son’s apartment. Like he just saw him four days ago, instead of four years. “Can’t a man say hi to his son? Your friends were just telling me about last season, how you killed it –”

 

Peter’s eyes dart to his friends’. Lily is beginning to look like she understands something isn’t quite right, but Eric and DeMarcus are still exchanging jokes with Dad.

 

Silently, Peter heads to the kitchen and starts rifling in the fridge for a beer.

 

“Is everything ok?” Lily asks quietly as she rinses out her wine glass in the sink.

 

“Fine,” he grumbles. He pops the can of Bud and takes three large gulps before wiping the corner of his mouth and exhaling, leaning against the counter and looking up at the ceiling. There’s a spider web on the light fixture. “I’m just great.”

 

“Do you want me to get him out of here?” she asks, taking an awfully long time to dry the single wine glass.

 

_Yes. Please do. Yesterday._

 

“Nah,” he says, straightening. He takes his phone out of his pocket. “I gotta finish this round of Candy Crush.”

 

*

 

Peter should’ve taken her up on her offer, because somehow, Dad drags all four of them to the Italian restaurant across town. Eric of course calls Deanna and now it’s a big elaborate thing where they’re all scarfing down family style pasta and meatballs and lasagna and Dad is regaling everybody about his escapades in college when he was their age. Thank god Peter’s at the opposite end of the table and can pretend he just really likes the tiramisu.

 

Eric and Deanna eventually beg off, probably to take advantage of the suddenly empty apartment, and they thank Dad profusely for the night out - DeMarcus wants to leave, too, and starts tugging at Lily’s hand. “Cmon, babe, I want to see the new Avengers,” he whines.

 

“Um - I think I’d rather finish my dessert,” she says, glancing at Peter.

 

“Just wrap it up!” Dad insists, laughingly. “It’s all on me.”

 

Helplessly, she looks at Peter and mouths, “Sorry.”

 

“Later, man,” DeMarcus says, giving him a fist bump.

 

When they’re gone, Peter turns his gaze on Dad. “What do you want?” he finally says, coldly.

 

“Like I said, can’t a father –”

 

“Sure, he can. But it’s not like you have been one to me, or Owen, in, oh, seven years give or take.” Peter takes a sip of his water, mostly to keep his face from reddening with anger. “His birthday was last month. Did you even remember?”

 

“Course I did. Sent him something too.”

 

“Really? Because he would’ve mentioned.”

 

“He must’ve forgotten to. You know how kids are.”

 

“He’s eighteen. He would’ve mentioned.”

 

“Maybe it got lost in the mail. I’ll call Amazon tomorrow.”

 

“Right.” Peter huffs. An excuse for everything.

 

“Look, I don’t want to fight Peter,” Dad says, his classic line for whenever he gets caught in a lie. Peter rolls his eyes. It’s almost predictable. “But you know what, I haven’t been honest. I did come down to talk to you about something.”

 

Peter raises a brow, crosses his arms. People used to say they look alike but he really can’t see it. _I’m nothing like him,_ he reminds himself.

 

“Owen’ll be going to school soon. He’s just not as talented as you are in lacrosse when it comes to soccer. And your mother is a little worried about the expense.” Dad chuckles a little laugh, like he’s surprised. “She wants me to pay half. Can you believe it?”

 

Peter just keeps quiet. Getting into UVA on a full lacrosse scholarship was supposed to make things easier for Mom and Owen. When Peter had come back home for Thanksgiving, he’d seen some of Owen’s applications opened up on the laptop. UVA of course. But also Duke. GW. Georgetown. His little brother is a smart kid and he might even make salutatorian at Adler - but Mom still doesn’t make enough money to send him out of state unless he gets a shit load of scholarships. Or other kinds of help.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” she’d said, when he’d asked. But there was a line between her brows and she seemed very tired. “I’ll make it happen.”

 

“I told her I couldn’t afford to,” Dad is saying now. “That look, I’ve got two other kids to worry about.” Peter can’t help the disgusted grimace. He honestly can’t believe this conversation. “And now she’s threatening to take me to court over it. Change the child support decree to include college tuition. It’s insane.”

 

“Aaaaaand?”

 

Dad leans back in his chair, apparently a little surprised that he’s not falling for this bullshit. “Can you talk to Mom for me? Help me get her to understand. I just can’t do it.”

 

“What? Be, I dunno, an actual father?”

 

“Hey, I _tried_ ,” Dad says, his voice rising slightly. “You and Owen never let me in after I left.”

 

“That’s bullshit,” Peter snaps. “You never put in even a half-assed effort.”

 

“What about that time two years ago, then?” Dad snaps back. “I _tried_ to get more custodial time with Owen, but by then, the three of you were conspiring against me.”

 

Peter slams his hand on the table, furious. The cutlery rattles, and the few remaining restaurant patrons turn to stare. That had been a bad time period, one he hates to think about. “Just. Stop. It.”

 

Dad leans forward in his chair. “Petey. Think about your little brothers.”

 

“I don’t know, Dad, looks like I am thinking about my little brother. Singular.” He points to the remains of their very expensive Italian dinner. “Maybe instead of trying to get your narcissistic supply trying to impress a bunch of college kids, you could’ve spent that five hundred dollar meal on a birthday present for Owen. Make up for the past seven years.”

 

Dad shakes his head vehemently. “Is that what your mother told you? That I’m a narcissist? Typical. That is so typical of that woman –”

 

“No,” Peter says, standing up. If he has to listen to him badmouthing his mother, he might actually take the spoon and shove it in his own father’s eyeball. “Psych major.” He taps his temple twice, grabs his jacket off the back of his chair. “Thanks for dinner, Dad.”

 

He could Uber back to the apartment, but he would much prefer the walk, even with the cold. He hunches his shoulders and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and takes off at a crisp clip.

 

He’d taken Psych 101 his freshman year, basically because he heard the professor was easy and he needed to fulfill some of his requirements without damaging his GPA so he could still play lacrosse. But there was also an underlying curiosity there - something in him, there from a very young age, just knew that his dad was a little bit ... off. And there was also Gen - who used to cut herself when things got really bad, who was just so dependent on him at her worst.

 

Psych ended up being very interesting (and hey, his first A at college!), and he just kept taking more and more classes. And googling things like narcissism and their trademark signs. Things with Dad suddenly began to make sense. Before he knew it, he had enough courses that he might as well declare it as his major. And now look - suddenly he’s a senior, and a research assistant to one of the most revered professors in the field.

 

Funny how a dickhead could inspire him to make something of himself.

 

His phone buzzes and he looks down. Texts from a number he doesn’t recognize, with a Virginia area code. Dad again. Unbelievable.

 

He starts to turn off his phone. But then thinks better of it. Opens up his contacts. Presses call.

 

It’s late, and she has every good reason not to answer. Too many good reasons.

 

But Peter calls her anyway.

 

She answers on about the sixth ring, voice groggy and confused, “Peter?”

 

“Hey, Covey,” he says, puffing into the phone - he’s now jogging, heading towards the apartment, to where he parked his car. “How . . . How are you doing?”

 

“I’m um. Good. Just -“ He can hear her yawn and he nearly laughs. He can just imagine her, buried underneath a mountain of covers, only her hair peeking out and spread over the pillows. “What’s going on?”

 

“I -“ He stops. He’s at his car. Just another block and he’ll be at the apartment. “Can we talk?”

 

There’s a long, measured pause before she says, “Sure.”

 

“No, I meant - I meant can I see you?”

 

“. . . Now?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Peter it’s –” He hears the covers rustle. “It’s 12:30! By the time you get here it’ll be –”

 

“Covey, I know l, I just.” He stops, takes in a shaky breath. “I just really need to talk with someone. With you.”

 

There’s a really long pause where he can only hear her breathing. He wonders if she fell asleep. Just when he decides to say fuck it, never mind, she says, softly - kindly - “Of course.”

 

He nods, even though she can’t see him. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll text when I get there.”

 

He jumps into his car, turns on the heat, blows on his fingers. Then, with a deep breath, he starts the three hour, twenty-five minute drive to his ex-girlfriend’s.


	2. Chapter 1: Letters – Winter, Sophomore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank everybody for commenting or leaving kudos on all my previous works. I'm just really, really, really bad at replying. D-: 
> 
> Timelines jump around for the following chapters. SORRY.

_Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail._

 

Lara Jean’s brows knit as she picks up the package leaning against the door of her apartment. The label is definitely in Peter’s handwriting, but as long as they’ve done long-distance, he’s never sent her a package as part of his weekly contractual promise.

 

She quickly unlocks the door, slides the mail for Aly and Savannah underneath their doors, and makes her way to her tiny room. After dumping her backpack at her desk, she finds a pair of scissors and slices at the sloppy packing tape job.

 

Once she digs inside, Lara Jean gasps. It’s baking supplies - the good kind - all the stuff she needs to bake the perfect chocolate chip cookie.

 

And one extra large plastic Tupperware, with a shipping label addressed to Peter’s apartment, and a note folded inside.

 

_Dear Lara Jean -_

_Ugh, I’m so sore! Coach has been killing us. But I guess it’s working because we haven’t lost a game yet. And I think he doesn’t hate me anymore – or at least, not as much as when I was a freshman. Ha!_

_Sorry I couldn’t drive down there last week, I was just exhausted after the game._ (Lara Jean shakes her head at this part. It’s a long drive, he doesn’t have to apologize. She’d rather him stay there and not fall asleep at the wheel.) _There’s talk we might even take the championship this season but I don’t wanna jinx us. Cross your fingers._

_Anyway, I remembered you said you wished you had time to bake to relieve some stress. And I had a craving. Kill two birds with one stone. Don’t think about orgo for a few hours. You can do this, Dr. Song-Covey._

_Love always,_

_Peter_

Lara Jean grins, shaking her head. Trust Peter to think of a way to simultaneously make her feel better, and get some sort of benefit from it.

 

Although he’s probably at practice, she finds her phone and thumbs in a quick message.

 

_Got my package. Love you._

She puts her phone on her desk, sets the package aside – grabs her backpack and sits down. She’ll get started on the cookies right after she finishes her orgo problem set. It’ll be her reward.

 

_*_

Lara Jean flips idly through the mail as she makes her way up to the apartment, barely registering what she’s reading. It’s like autopilot. Bills for her - she likes to get them in paper, automatic debit just makes her forget what, exactly, she’s spending - junk mail for Savannah, junk mail for Our Friend at Apartment 2D, junk mail for her, junk mail for Aly ...

 

She slides the stuff for her roommates underneath the doors of their rooms, and flops down on the living room couch, exhausted – and terrified.

 

That orgo mid-term was so _bad._

 

_There’s no way I passed,_ she thinks, and before she knows it, she’s tearing up and sobbing into a couch cushion. _I studied so hard and I still failed._ All the stress from the few months bubbles forth – the fleeting thought she wanted so much to do well, become a doctor, like Dad . . . make Mom proud . . . Freshman year she’d gotten so many good grades, and all of that is gone in an instant, with one horrible test – and she just cries harder.

 

She’s still hiccoughing when Savannah arrives back home, Theo and Jae in tow.

 

“Oh my god, LJ, what happened? Are you okay?” she exclaims, plopping down next to her.

 

“I think I failed the orgo mid-term,” Lara Jean manages to get out.

 

“Aw, hon. Don’t cry. Come on.”

 

“Don’t worry, LJ, it always seems worse right after you take an exam,” Theo says, sitting down on the arm of the sofa next to her. “I’m sure you did fine.” He puts an arm around her and squeezes, reassuring.

 

“I just feel so dumb. I have never, ever studied as hard as I did for this stupid test.” Vaguely, this reminds her of when she got rejected from UVA – except somehow worse. It all worked out for the better, after all – she got into UNC, and she loves it here. This – this she can’t imagine crawling out of this hole if she wants to be a doctor.

 

“You’re not dumb,” Theo insists, giving her another squeeze. “Look, last year, I got a B+ with Takahashi. No one gets a B+ in that class. I’ll help you.”

 

“This is true,” Jae affirms, wisely. He points his empty coffee cup at her, and says, like Gandalf in _Lord of the Rings,_ “You! Will! Pass!”

 

The boys laugh and Savannah shakes her head. “Dorks. C’mon, LJ, lets get you a drink.” She links her arm through hers and she and Theo help pull her off the sofa.

 

Lara Jean lays her head gratefully on Savannah’s shoulder as they walk out of the apartment, Sav already on the phone to call Aly and let her know of their plans. Theo looks over at her, gives her a nod and a wink. She smiles shyly, and nods back.

 

_My friends are awesome,_ she thinks, already feeling a little bit better.

 

She doesn’t remember this is the third week in a row Peter hasn’t written.

 

-tbc-


	3. Chapter 2: Calls – Fall, Freshman Year/Winter, Sophomore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, before she goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part references something that happened in my other works, but you don't have to read them to understand what's going on. Basically, Peter forced LJ to watch Aliens once. ;)

_You are DEAD to me Peter Kavinsky!!!!_

 

Peter pauses, leaving his toothbrush stuck inside the side of his mouth. He would be alarmed if the text from Lara Jean hadn’t been followed immediately followed by angry face emojis. She doesn’t use those emojis if she’s really mad.

 

_What? Call me in 5. Unless you’re also not speaking to me?_ He spits, rinses his mouth out, and starts washing his face.

 

_Yeah. But you better have a good explanation for yourself._

 

This one is followed by a kissing face. Okay. So she’s not truly mad. But ... proceed with caution.

 

DeMarcus is thankfully at the library tonight so once he’s done at the bathroom, Peter just dumps his shower caddy in his closet, crawls into bed and waits for the FaceTime tone.

 

When her face comes up, Lara Jean is sitting in what looks to be her suite’s lounge. (That’s what they quickly discovered within the first two days of college – about having roommates and trying to maintain a long-distance relationship. If you call during the night most of the time, someone has to leave the room, to avoid any awkwardness.) She’s still wearing make-up and one of those off-the-shoulder tops that drives him nuts because he likes the way it exposes the side of her neck. So she must’ve come back from a party or something.

 

“So what did I do?” he says, grinning at her.

 

She scrunches her nose in mock-anger at him. “We were just at Theo’s.” He almost says something about this Theo dude – his name comes up a lot, and they’ve only been in college for a month – but then she says, “The guys were having an _Aliens_ marathon.”

 

Oh, shit.

 

“And we arrived just in time to see the beginning of _Aliens 3_.”

 

Peter grimaces. “Ah, geez. Don’t kill me?”

 

“How could you _not_ tell me?!” Lara Jean yells at him. “After all these years!”

 

Peter can’t help himself. He bursts out laughing. “Covey, I’m really, really, _really_ sorry.”

 

“All this time you’ve led me to believe Ripley and Hicks escape the aliens and live happily ever after with Newt and –”

 

“Whoa whoa whoa, I never led you to believe anything!” he interrupts, still choking back laughter.

 

“You never said they didn’t!” she pouts.

 

“I never said they _did_ , either!”

 

“You said not to watch _Aliens 3_ because it was bad! So I thought, you being you, you meant there was more, you know, mushy stuff.”

 

“I said that because it _is_ bad! As in it’s a bad movie! And I didn’t want you to get upset when they kill the kid and Hicks within the first three minutes.” He pauses. “Anyway, you could’ve Googled the movie. All those times I said I’d rather watch something else ...”

 

“No, never, you know I never do spoilers, it ruins the effect,” she sniffs. “I feel betrayed, Peter. Honestly. I should’ve never watched the first two with you.”

 

He grins fondly back at her. “Yeah, well, if we hadn’t, we probably wouldn’t even be together now. So. You should be thanking me. In fact, you? Are welcome.”

 

Her smile turns soft and gooey. His stomach does that flip-flop thing it does when she smiles like that, and he forgets about asking who is this Theo kid, for now.

 

*

 

Peter presses the home button on his phone. It lights up, but no notifications. Even so, he unlocks it and quickly checks his iMessages. Sips his beer. Then checks WhatsApp.

 

Nothing.

 

Not that he expected a message. The last time they actually talked which was . . . he can’t remember? . . . she mentioned something about thinking she failed her mid-term, that she needed to buckle down if she had any hope of pulling her grade up to something decent.

 

And then he’d had those games against Notre Dame and Duke and . . .

 

(Dad, nosing around again. For some really strange reason he can’t fathom.)

 

Texts and calls have gotten short between him and Lara Jean. It’s weird and not great but he also doesn’t want to bother her, with so much of his shit, since she’s so stressed. Basically, he can’t wait for spring break. Maybe Coach will get off their asses, and then he can feel like he can breathe again.

 

“Hey. You coming back out or what?” Melissa pokes her head into the spare bedroom.

 

“Yeah, just checking my phone,” Peter says.

 

“This is your celebration party, you know,” she says, leaning on the jamb. “One more game and you guys are in!”

 

“The team’s celebration,” he reminds her.

 

“Whatever, Peter, you only scored the winning goal.” She holds out her hand to help him off the bed. He stands up a little unsteadily, already slightly drunk, and they’re almost chest to chest. She grins up at him, white teeth gleaming in the semi-darkness, and he can’t help but smile back a little, as she leads him out, fingers laced through his.

 

Peter drops her hand as they hit the wall of music and laughter and chatter – slides his phone into his back pocket, forgets it’s there for the rest of the party. Doesn’t check to see if he received any calls when he finally crashes. And in the morning, when he sort of remembers to check during Sociology, he finds that the only person who texted was Owen.

 

_He keeps calling. Mom is freaking out but trying to pretend it’s nothing. She left her e-mail up and I know it’s wrong but I saw some shit from a lawyer. Idk Pete it looks bad. I just don’t understand why he’s doing this now?_

 

He quickly texts back, worrying his lower lip between his teeth, today’s lecture forgotten. _Don’t worry bud. I’ll come back tonight. Sit tight._

 

-tbc-


	4. Chapter 3: Pictures – Winter, Freshman Year/Late Spring, Sophomore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter’s choosing on her wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy jumping timelines, batman! thanks for sticking with me.

“Whatareyou _doinghere?!_ ” Lara Jean squeals, leaping into Peter’s arms. “How?!”

 

He whirls her around, but it’s a tiny dorm room, and her feet hit the edge of her desk, rattling everything. They both crack up as he sets her down.

 

“I went back home after the game, grabbed my car back from Mom. I told her it’s not good for it to sit in the driveway all the time.” He grins at her. “Surprised?”

 

“Uh, _yeah,_ ” she says, breathless. He looks _so_ good, if tired from the late drive. She rises up on tiptoe to give him a kiss –

 

“Um, I think I’m – just gonna – go crash with Savannah,” Aly says, quickly, from her top bunk. “Just . . . you know – let me grab some stuff –”

 

“Oh god! Aly!” Lara Jean quickly disentangles herself, although Peter just hugs her from behind, fingers laced on top of her stomach. “Um, you don’t have to leave –”

 

“What?” Peter says, eyes bugging out in surprise, and then quickly, “No no no no . . .”

 

Aly smirks, jumps down from the bunk, and starts snatching at things from her closet. “I kinda do,” she says, as Peter snickers into Lara Jean’s hair. “Have _fuuun_ . . . It was nice meeting you for 4.5 seconds, Peter.” And she’s out the door before either of them could say otherwise – not that they would.

 

Peter flops down on Lara Jean’s bed, opens his arms. She follows and snuggles deep into his chest, her heart still thumping wildly. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she murmurs, dazed. They hadn’t managed to see each other the first few months of freshman year, not until Thanksgiving. A few weeks later they were on winter break, which had been amazing. But Lara Jean had honestly thought they wouldn’t see each other until spring break – lacrosse season had started in earnest, and Peter’s coach was apparently a drill sergeant on crack (his words, not hers). It’s a complete, total, wonderful surprise to see him in the middle February.

 

“Well, believe it, kid,” Peter says gruffly.

 

She squeezes him about the neck, grinning. “Was the ride bad? I know it’s long . . .”

 

He clucks his tongue at her. “Piece of cake. Besides, it’s good practice for when I get to have my car on campus next year.”

 

She smiles, plays with the strings of his UVA hoodie – even though she knows he’s lying. It was a bad ride. He looks exhausted, and he came right after a game . . . already his breathing is slowing, like he’s falling asleep. Not that she minds. She’ll gladly stay here and cuddle him instead of . . .

 

“You, miss, broke a cardinal clause of our contract.”

 

“Huh?” Lara Jean startles awake.

 

Peter points to her wall, at the photo of them – a print out of the first “couple-y” shot she posted of them on Instagram, him nuzzling her cheek after a baking session at her house. “I didn’t choose that one.”

 

Lara Jean makes a face. “Peter, I was not gonna leave up that other photo of you,” she says. “You’re shirtless! It’s so . . . so . . . so _thirsty_!”

 

“That’s the _point_!”

 

She digs her fingers into his sides, but he retaliates and soon they’re in a middle of a tickle fight, which gets dicey because they’re also in a bottom bunk bed, and Lara Jean bangs her head on the top bunk. “ _Ow!_ Owowowowow.”

 

Peter laughs, rubs her head, kisses the spot. “Oh my god, sorry sorry sorry,” he laughs. “Here. Aw. All better?”

 

“Yeah,” she grumbles, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “Okay, so I broke a clause. What’s my punishment?”

 

He grins wickedly at her. She grins back, leans forward so that they’re almost kissing. “You sure you’re not too tired? From the drive?”

 

“I’ll make the effort,” he says, matter-of-fact. Then he leans back, pulls her down on top of him and murmurs, against her mouth, “Although, you still have to put the photo back up.” He quickly smothers her outraged giggle with a kiss. His hands go up, underneath her pajama top, searching, and then says, jokingly, “Miss me?”

 

She grabs his hand, shoves it down, beyond the elastic of her sweats. He chokes back a laugh but obliges. “Yes,” she murmurs, shifting on top of him – then, pulls back, to look at him in the eye. “Always.”

 

His gaze softens so suddenly she can only manage a small smile in return. Then he flips her gently onto her back, pulls her pants down gently, starts kissing her stomach, her thighs. Lara Jean sighs, threads her fingers through his hair . . . stares at the bottom of Aly’s bed, and manages to ask, “You?”

 

Peter never does reply, but she can feel him against her . . . inside her . . . over her, and she knows – yes, yes he did, too.

 

*

 

“Aw, you guys look _adorable_ ,” Savannah says from behind her phone.

 

“Thanks,” Theo says, and Aly and Savannah crack up at him blushing.

 

Lara Jean smiles softly, pokes his side. “Let me see,” she says.

 

“Already on Insta,” Savannah says, typing into her phone with flourish.

 

_Instagram?_ Lara Jean almost says, “No, wait,” but then her phone pings with the notification. She unlocks it, a bit tense, and pulls up her Instagram. True to her word, Savannah’s posted the picture of her and Theo, comfortably curled up on the couch together. She’s tagged the both of them and added _#cutiesinluv._

_We_ do _look cute_ , Lara Jean thinks, and Theo, peering over her shoulder to look, pecks her on the side of her mouth.

 

She smiles at him. His happy grin tells her everything – his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and she likes that.

 

Aly pulls her from the couch, dragging her to the kitchen, while Savannah plops down on the bean bag and starts talking with Theo about the next SBA meeting. “SooOOooo, when did this happen?” Aly says, eyes alight.

 

“Um – last week,” Lara Jean says, blushing furiously.

 

“And you guys kept it from us this long? Girl, I am insulted!”

 

Lara Jean winces. “We didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” She looks at her, pleadingly. “Please do not make a big deal out of it!”

 

“Okay, I won’t, I won’t. Do you want me to get Sav to delete the post?”

 

“No, no, it’s okay.” Lara Jean shakes her head. She’s being ridiculous, she knows. “It’s just – never mind. It’s cool.”

 

Aly pulls her close for a hug. “I’m just really glad you’re finally happy again.”

 

Lara Jean smiles, touched. She knew things for a while were a bit . . . well, _sad_ is the only real word for it. She squeezes Aly back and heads to the couch again – nestles into Theo’s side more snuggly. As he puts his arm around her, rubbing her upper arm, still talking to Savannah, Lara Jean wraps her own arms across her chest, just listening to her friends talk.

 

She doesn’t notice how her thumb plays with a soft patch of skin just under her throat, where cool metal used to lie.

 

-tbc-


	5. Chapter 4: Scrapbooks – Fall, Freshman Year/Late Spring, Sophomore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter will keep the scrapbook out on his desk so any interested parties will see that he is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more jumping bean timelines!

For whatever reason, everybody’s chilling in DeMarcus and Peter’s room after the frat party. The mood is low-key, typical of people just getting to know each other – trading jokes and getting anxious about the Econ quiz on Tuesday. Suddenly Deanna squeals, high-pitched, “What’s thiiiiis?”

 

Lily peers around and then they both coo, “Oooo that’s adorable,” and “Is she your girlfriend?” and “Oh she’s _so_ cute!” and Peter can feel both the flush that’s definitely not from his beer and the grin that’s also not from his beer spread across his face.

 

“Uh, yeah, that’s Lara Jean,” he says, moving to swipe the scrapbook from Deanna’s hands, but she just swats his hands away.

 

“Ugh, that’s just so freaking cute. She’s so freaking cute. You’re both so freaking cute,” she slurs drunkenly.

 

Olivia, from on top of DeMarcus’s bunk bed, looks annoyed. DeMarcus exchanges glances with Eric. But Peter meets her gaze and shrugs his shoulders, unapologetic.

 

Later, when they’ve all gone, DeMarcus says, from his bunk, “Dude, that was cold.”

 

“What? She knows I’ve got a girl. I’ve told her before. Since day one actually.”

 

“Yeah but man, fish - sea. Strike while the iron is hot. And Olivia? Is hot.”

 

Peter just pulls the covers over his head. He’s heard all this and more before – and it’s only been the third week of college. He unlocks his phone. “‘Night, man.” Then he texts, _You still up?_

 

He doesn’t really expect a reply, since it’s so late, and they’d already had a quick chat via FaceTime earlier in the night. He’s half-asleep when the phone buzzes.

 

_Noooo_ , followed by a winky face.

 

Peter bites his lip against his grin. _Want me to call?_

_Yes, in 15? If it’s not too late._

 

He quickly shoots over a love heart and then quietly gets out of bed and out of the room so he won’t bother DeMarcus. He’ll play a couple of rounds of Candy Crush in the suite while he waits.

 

*

 

The books fall to the floor with a clatter. “Ouch! Sorry, Peter. Hey, what’s this?”

 

Peter looks up from his desk. Melissa’s trying to put his textbooks back on his shelf, next to his desk, and in her hand is the scrapbook.

 

He’d completely forgotten he’d left it there.

 

“Nothing,” he says, slightly embarrassed. He holds out his hand.

 

Melissa gives him a dubious look - like she knows he’s bullshitting her - but hands the scrapbook back to him. “Hey, so can I ask you a totally honest question? And get a totally honest answer?” she asks, after a moment’s hesitation.

 

Peter sets the scrapbook on his desk, sits back in his chair. He has a feeling he knows what’s coming. _Ugh_. Things between them have been, so far, fun. Had been, at least. He forces himself to appear at ease. “Sure, shoot.”

 

“You said you were over her,” Melissa says, bluntly. “Is that the truth? Because I’ve done the whole, second-best thing before with my ex, and? Kinda over it.”

 

He winces internally. Did she really have to use “second-best”? No way she could’ve known, but still.

 

“Yes,” he says, seriously. “I just forgot I left it there.” She gives him another hard stare. “Look, I’ve done the whole – ” (he pauses, doesn’t want to use the term, but can’t think of anything better) “ – second-best thing too.” He just doesn’t say it was in a totally different context. “And I’m definitely over it. And her. It’s been months. Honest.” Her gaze softens, marginally, and then he offers, to keep the peace, “Do you want me to trash it?” He holds the scrapbook over the waste paper basket, at the side of his desk.

 

Melissa chews on the inside of her cheek. “No, don’t,” she says, finally. She taps the Personality Psychology textbook she’d been looking for with her pen. “I need to ace this quiz if I have a prayer of getting on the Dean’s List.” She leans down, presses a quick kiss on his mouth.

 

Peter nods, waits for her to walk into the living room. He looks at the cover . . . traces his fingers, light, on the perfect, curly script.

 

But he doesn’t open it. Nor does he put it in the wastebasket.

 

Instead, he slides the scrapbook back on the shelf, into the only spare space he can find, between last semester’s notebooks.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big daddy in the next installment, thanks for bearing with <3


	6. Chapter 5: Truths – Christmas Break, Freshman Year/Early Spring, Sophomore Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Lara Jean will always tell each other the truth, even when it’s hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jumping timelines like jumping beans!!!

It’d been the almost perfect day. Presents, hot chocolate, Christmas songs while baking cookies with Margot and Kitty. Dinner was huge and delicious and she’s almost grotesquely stuffed, having eaten firsts at Peter’s and then seconds at home.

 

Almost the perfect day, because then Lara Jean has to open her big, fat mouth and mention, when prompted by Ravi, what she’s considering majoring in.

 

“Are you sure?” Margot asks, before a spoonful of mash.

 

Lara Jean tries not to bristle. “I mean, there’s still time, but yeah. Pre-med.”

 

“It’s just – you know, so _hard_ ,” Margot muses. “People with the best grades still struggle with it.”

 

“I’m sure LJ will do just fine,” Dad says.

 

“Was it hard for you, Daddy?” Kitty asks.

 

“Well, sure,” Dad admits. “But then med school was even harder.”

 

“So, Ravi,” Peter interrupts, helping himself to more stuffing. “How has Birmingham City been doing?”

 

“Oh, ace, yeah,” Ravi says, and launches into this whole narrative on how his favorite soccer – football – whatever – team is doing this season. Lara Jean feels Peter give her knee a squeeze underneath the table. She takes a slow bite of her green bean casserole before taking his hand and squeezes back – _Thanks_.

 

Later, when everyone else is up in bed, and they’re the only one downstairs, marathoning corny Christmas movies, she says, almost idly, “Do you think I can do it?”

 

Next to her on the sectional, Peter doesn’t even blink. “’Course.”

 

“I guess . . . I just don’t understand why she has to say things like that,” Lara Jean says, picking at the cuff of her sweater.

 

“She’s just looking out for you,” Peter says. “It _is_ hard. Deakins? He’s a junior on the team. Pre-med. He said he nearly failed out in some of the classes.”

 

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she says, dubious.

 

“Yeah, because you’re way smarter than him. I have a smarty-pants girlfriend, remember?”

 

Lara Jean stretches forward on her belly the lounge part of the sectional, head by the end, so her chin rests, pillowed on her interlaced fingers, legs in the air and crossed at the ankles. Peter soon follows, bringing the wrap with him so they’re both underneath the tartan blanket. He props his head up with his hand, turns on his side to look at her.

 

“I know she means well,” she murmurs, closing her eyes, as he touches her face, lightly, with his index finger – over her brow, the softness of her cheekbone. “Ever since Mom died, she’s been . . . well, more like my mom, sometimes, than Mom.”

 

“So when she says you can’t do something you feel like you can’t do it?”

 

Lara Jean nods without opening her eyes. Peter used to say that she just got him, almost immediately. But the truth is, he did too, with her.

 

He kisses her temple gently. “She _didn’t_ say you _couldn’t_ do it, though. She was just looking out for you.”

 

“Is this older sibling wisdom here?” She opens one eye to look at him.

 

He nods rapidly.

 

She scrunches her nose at him and fake grrs – he growls back, and pulls her closer, so that he’s lying on his back and she’s using his chest as a pillow, both of them still upside down on the lounge and staring at the ceiling, the movie forgotten.

 

He hasn’t mentioned it all day but she can tell something’s bothering him.

 

“Your turn,” she murmurs.

 

Peter shrugs. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

 

Lara Jean lifts her eyebrows at him. “Contract,” she reminds him, simply. He rolls his eyes. She adds, serene, “You were the one who wrote all the terms and conditions. I simply signed.”

 

He huffs out a rueful laugh. “Well, that bit me on the ass.”

 

“And it’s such a cute ass,” Lara Jean muses.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re very welcome.”

 

“You know, you’re welcome to slap it any – ”

 

“Peter. Don’t try to deflect.”

 

He pauses, then says, eventually, “It’s just - y’know, it being Christmas. Makes me ...” His voice fades. He nods at all the garlands, the twinkling lights on the Covey Christmas tree.

 

“The Grinch?”

 

“Kind of.”

 

“... Your dad didn’t send anything again, huh?”

 

He nods slowly. “I can’t tell what’s worse. All the other times, Owen got his hopes up. But this Christmas - it’s the first time he’s said, ‘Thought so.’ Mom’s face ...”

 

Not for the first time, a ribbon of sadness curls around her heart. When she’d first met Mr. Kavinsky, she’d wanted to think the best of him – wanted to believe that he was a good guy, like Peter is. That a man should know his sons. Even now, knowing how often he’s flaked out on Peter and Owen, she can’t quite understand why anyone could do the things he’s done.

 

So she snuggles closer, tilts her head up to kiss his chin. His hand on her shoulder tightens, just a bit.

 

_It’s A Wonderful Life_ continues on in the background as they kiss.

 

“Christmas or no, you can always talk to me about him,” she says, when they come up for air.

 

He trails a finger down her nose, taps her lips. She purses them against him, ever so slightly. “It’s just – I dunno. I feel like that’s all I ever do sometimes. Complain about his shit.” He shakes himself out of it. “Come on. Let’s not ruin our first Christmas break.”

 

“Let’s,” she agrees, and winds her arms around his neck, buries her face in the hollow of his throat, where it feels like home. “But I meant what I said, Peter.”

 

He nods, shifts to kiss her on the forehead. “Thanks, Covey.”

 

She sing-songs to him, “You’re welcome,” and finally, he laughs.

 

*

 

Lara Jean stares at her Favorites in her contact list. Margot. Kitty. Dad. Trina. Chris. Lucas.

 

Some new additions over the years. Aly. Savannah. Jae. Theo.

 

And of course, at the top, is Peter.

 

She takes a deep breath. Presses his name.

 

She doesn’t really expect him to answer. But he does, after about the fourth ring.

 

“Hey,” he says. It’s with slight surprise. The room he’s in is dark and she can’t really see him, just shadows.

 

“Hey,” she says, staring up at the ceiling. She takes another breath. “Can we ... can we talk?”

 

He pauses. She can hear people chatting in the background. She wonders what she interrupted. There was a time when she knew his schedule as well as her own. Now ...

 

“Yeah. Yeah sure,” he says. “Gimme a second.” The shadow of him freezes as he puts her on hold. She thinks he must sense what’s going on, otherwise he would’ve given the same response he’s been giving her lately - _Not right now. I’m busy. Maybe later?_

 

And later never comes.

 

Not that she’s innocent. How many times did she text those very same words to him?

 

Too many.

 

If only . . . if only she wasn’t so busy trying to stay afloat in orgo. If only she’d _get_ orgo. If only he wasn’t so busy with lacrosse . . . and he’d _hate_ her for thinking this . . . if only UVA weren’t winning every single game, trying to go for the championships.

 

He’d been pissed – justifiably – that she had decided last minute to stay at UNC for spring break with all her organic chemistry textbooks and aids and spent the entire week holed up in her apartment, up to her eyeballs with arrow-pushing.

 

But – but also . . . even if she had come back, would it have mattered? Probably not. This distance between them had started well before spring break, if she’s being truly honest with herself. She’s not sure how, or why, but she knows it’s there – like a weight on their ankles as they try to tread water.

 

“Hey, I’m back.” The noise is gone. It looks like her went outside – his face is a little orange, like he’s by a lamppost.

 

“Hey.”

 

“ ... Hey.”

 

Lara Jean stares at the crack in the ceiling. It’s just a chip in the ceiling of her room. But it’s there, fragmented, sharp even in the darkness.

 

“Peter,” she sighs. “Are we ... you know? I don’t know how else to say it. Are we okay?”

 

There’s a long time before he answers with a sigh of his own. He doesn’t look at the camera. “I’m - not sure.”

 

“Is this –” Her voice cracks. Damn it. She puts a hand over her eyes.

 

“Covey,” Peter says, gently. Which somehow makes it even worse. “Don’t -”

 

“Is it about spring break?” she asks. “Because I stayed here? I said I was sorry. But I really needed to – ”

 

“Don’t say study,” Peter breaks in, pissed. “I know you were hanging out with Theo the entire time.”

 

“We were just studying,” she says, winded. It sounds empty even to her, even though it’s true. “He offered to help me. The flights back home to California were just too much for him anyway . . . He’s just a friend.”

 

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Nothing is ever ‘just’ with you, Covey. Never has been.”

 

The dig about their past flares uncomfortably in her chest, and she shoots back, sitting up in bed, “Yeah, like you and this – what’s her name? Melissa?” Peter bites the inside of his cheek and looks away from the camera, and she knows – _knows_ because she knows him, that something is up. “She tags you a lot on Instagram, Peter. Especially on spring break.”

 

“We’re ju – ” He stops himself, starts again, “She’s my friend. That’s all.” Lara Jean ducks her head at the tone of his voice – flat, serious. But she knows him, and she knows he’s telling the truth, at least on his end.

 

She wonders if that’s enough.

 

Some guy passes Peter by on the street, claps him on the shoulder in greeting – Peter says, “Yo,” and something mumbled. Somewhere below her window, Lara Jean hears people laughing – students on their way to parties, going about their typical Friday night at college, the world still turning on and on and on, without them.

 

“Sorry,” Peter says, now, to her. “I’m back.”

 

Lara Jean nods slowly. Her throat feels raw, but she’s got to say it. “We . . .” She swallows, starts again. “We tried, didn’t we? I mean . . . you have your life there. I have my life here. And I don’t want to be that girlfriend again, the jealous one. And I don’t think you want to be the jealous boyfriend, either. A-and . . .” She shakes her head, stares up at the ceiling again. Wipes at the tears that come sliding down the corners of her eyes. “I keep thinking that . . .” She shakes her head again, unable to say it.

 

When she finally dares to look at the phone again, Peter’s looking off to the side, head down. “You keep thinking that this is it, then,” he finally grinds out, finishing her sentence.

 

“... Peter ...” Her voice cracks.

 

She closes her eyes. Lies down on her side. She can feel the tears drip onto her pillow, soak the cloth beneath her hair.

 

“I think it is,” she mumbles.

 

It takes him a long time to reply, but when he does, his voice is quiet, and gravelly, but steady – certain.

 

“I think it is, too.”

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two more parts, i swear, and it'll be done. thanks to all those who've commented and left kudos. <3


	7. Chapter 6: A Promise – Fall, Freshman Year/Present Day, Senior Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter will love Lara Jean with all his heart, always.

Lara Jean, teary-eyed, rolls down the backseat window and leans out. Peter bends down and kisses her briefly. No time for more when her dad and Mrs. Rothschild (he’ll never be able to call her anything other than Mrs. Rothschild) in the front seats, and Kitty sitting beside her.

 

“I’ll call you when I get there,” she says, squeezing his hand.

 

“You’d better,” he replies, gruffly.

 

“Do you want to come back for dinner tonight?” Dr. Covey asks.

 

He shakes his head. “Nah, thanks. I gotta pack myself.”

 

Dr. Covey nods. “We’ll see you soon, Peter.”

 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Mrs. Rothschild says, smiling encouragingly at him.

 

“I won’t. I got a date with little LJ in two weeks,” he says, nodding at Kitty. She gives him a thumbs up, but for once, her smile isn’t shit-eating, but wobbly – the kind where you’re sad, and trying to be brave.

 

Lara Jean reaches for him again, and kisses him on the forehead. He closes his eyes, trying to imprint the touch into his skin for a little while longer, merely by thought. “I’ll see you in a few,” she says, and leaves out the part where “a few” means months, not hours, not days.

 

She sits back. Peter straightens, coughs, hits the top of the car with a light two thumps. Dr. Covey pulls the SUV away. Lara Jean waves, blows him a kiss.

 

And then she’s gone.

 

Peter turns away quickly, swiping his eyes with the back of his hand, as he jogs back to his car. He does have to go pack, he's been putting it off forever. But also, he doesn’t want to remember saying good-bye to her. He just wants to remember the look on her face this morning, when they woke up from watching the meteor shower . . . the rising sun glimmering over her rosy skin - the way he felt, just looking at her waking up, seeing her eyes focus in on him, the first thing she sees at the start of a new day.

 

How he’d wanted to love her, and for Lara Jean to love him, forever - always.

 

Always.

 

*

 

Peter’s about half an hour from the Chapel Hill campus when he realizes he doesn’t know Covey’s address anymore – she’d moved into an apartment her sophomore year, but for all he knows she could’ve moved again. He quickly texts her and she responds immediately with a familiar address.

 

When he finally arrives, he can see her waiting on the doorstep in a fluffy down coat. He slides into some parking across the street, blocking a driveway, but it’s so late – or early, however you want to call it – he doubts that anyone cares. After he turns off the ignition, though, he pauses.

 

They’d texted each other from time to time – checking in, short and brief, and, just to make sure there were no hard feelings on either side, always followed up with a smiley face or two. But they didn’t talk about anything serious – anything that warranted more than a sentence usually involved something having to do with their siblings.

 

And now? Randomly calling her in the middle of the night? Showing up at her doorstep at some ungodly hour? That’s like, a dickbag move.

 

Peter shakes his head, gets out of the car slowly. He hasn’t been this nervous since . . . well, since he was a kid in high school, waiting on a bus with a backpack full of Yakult and snacks and a note written for a girl.

 

Which is ridiculous. Because he’s not here for a hook up. Or even to get back together. He’s here because – because, even after all this time, Lara Jean’s been the only person he could talk to about this kind of shit with his father.

 

( _The real stuff._ )

 

It’s just . . . he’s now coming to realize, in all the craziness of sophomore year – in the sudden, relieving calm and distance that followed – he’d almost forgotten this critical fact.

 

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, as he approaches the stoop.

 

“Hey,” Lara Jean says, gesturing to a plate of cookies next to her. Two cups of what look like steaming hot chocolate await both of them. “Sorry, I didn’t want to buzz you in and wake the girls. Want some?”

 

“No worries.” He hesitates. “You – ah – didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”

 

She shrugs, nonchalant. “I, um, couldn’t sleep after you called. And I figured you might be hungry after the drive. It wasn’t any trouble.”

 

Peter, feeling slightly guilty, takes a mug and a cookie. He knows, in fact, it was a shit load of trouble, because he’s seen her whisk around the kitchen before, a busy bumblebee, flour and sugar coating her apron and hair, so many times he’s lost track. He bites into the cookie. “Delicious,” he says, and he’s sure it is, but right now it tastes almost like ashes in the back of his throat. _Get it together, Kavinsky._

 

She nods slowly.

 

They’re silent for a while, drinking hot chocolate and snacking on cookies. He sneaks a sidelong glance at her. Still the same Lara Jean – fuzzy slippers, kitten-print pajamas underneath the bright lavender down jacket, hood up against the chill. He peers at her more closely.

 

“You cut your hair,” he says, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

 

Lara Jean, startled, tucks a stray, bob-lengthed strand behind her ear – her hood falls a bit. “Uh, yeah. During the summer. You know” – her voice goes high and peppy, and she moves her fist in a up-and-at-‘em fashion –“fresh start to senior year.”

 

Peter nods. He’s not sure why he’s so thrown. He guesses because he’s always had this image of Lara Jean in his mind, even after they broke up – even after they started dating other people – that she’d stay Lara Jean forever. His Lara Jean. Which is ridiculous, he knows, because . . .

 

“You look good,” he says, and almost winces, because it sounds so fake and corny and he doesn’t want her to think she _doesn’t_ look good – because she does – but he’s . . . he’s still thrown.

 

She laughs brightly, blushing. “Thanks,” she says. “You should maybe look into it.”

 

“Into what?”

 

“A haircut?” she says, eyes wide over the brim of her mug. Judgey eyes.

 

He rolls his own. “Ugh, you sound just like Lily.”

 

“Lily?” Lara Jean looks down at her mug. “Oh – um, what about Melissa – I mean, are you two –”

 

“What – oh, no no no no. No.” He laughs. “No, uh, Melissa and I are – well . . . a while ago – ”

 

“Oh. Okay.” Lara Jean doesn’t look at him, sips her at her hot chocolate instead.

 

“And you – and, uh – whats-his-face?” He pretends to not know the name, although he does – Peter had seen her friend’s photo on Instagram, maybe a few months after he and Covey officially called it quits. (He’d waited about a week before he’d unfollowed Lara Jean’s account.)

 

Lara Jean just nibbles her chocolate chip cookie. “No, Theo and I are not together anymore.” She pauses. “So when did you and Lily . . .?”

 

Peter shakes his head, laughs again. “No, I mean, Lily’s great and all but she’s like, literally my sister. Plus DeMarcus would kill me.”

 

Covey smiles. Maybe he’s making it up in his head, but she looks relieved. “I remember him. I think I remember Lily now, too? They weren’t dating back, um, when we –?”

 

“No, they’ve been seeing each other since junior year. They’re like lovesick puppies. Kinda disgusting.”

 

Lara Jean smiles at this. “She was nice. They both were,” she says, and he knows she’s remembering the time she and a bunch of UNC students took a bus to watch UNC versus UVA lacrosse. He hadn’t even played seven minutes total, being only a freshman at the time, but Lara Jean wore UVA colors and his number on her cheek. She’d spent the entire weekend with him at campus and met all of his friends. They had really liked her.

 

“Somehow I doubt you drove almost four hours to tell me talk about your friends’ love lives in the middle of the night, Peter Kavinsky,” Lara Jean says now. “Want to tell me what’s up?”

 

He clears his throat, brushes the cookie crumbs from his jeans. He’s not sure why he’s telling her this now, considering he felt like he couldn’t tell her about all the shit that went down years ago. It’s weird. It’s like it’s easier this way, with this distance, this quiet between them.

 

“Dad just showed up out of the blue.” Lara Jean’s mouth drops slightly. “You wouldn’t believe what he tried.”

 

“To get to know his son?” she asks. Peter nearly laughs. She’s always been like that - so hopeful, so optimistic. It drove him nuts when they were younger - the bad kind, and the good kind of nuts.

 

“Nope. He wanted me to talk to Mom. To convince her not to go to court and force him to help pay for Owen’s college tuition.”

 

She narrows her eyes. “ _What_?!”

 

“Yup. I never wanted to punch another person so badly in my life.”

 

“Wow.” Lara Jean shakes her head, nibbles on a cookie. “That’s . . . _wow_.

 

“I _know_.” He leans against the stone railing, so he’s facing her. “Literally. What the fuck.”

 

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she says, sincerely. “That sucks. I’m assuming you didn’t though. Punch him, I mean.”

 

“I should’ve.”

 

“Well, _yeah_ ,” she says, nodding. “But you did the right thing.”

 

He closes his eyes, leans his head against the railing. “So then why do I feel like shit about it?”

 

“Because he’s your dad. And he’s treated you like crap. You deserve to feel the way you do.” Lara Jean shivers and takes another long sip of her drink. “Just - don’t let it get to you. You’re not him. You’ve never been.”

 

He peeks at her from under his lashes. She’s not looking at him. He wonders what she’s thinking - him just dropping by like this. Like Dad. He pushes that traitorous little half-formed thought away.

 

“How’re you doing?” he asks instead.

 

“Oh! Um, good. In the middle of med school applications. Got some interviews coming up soon.”

 

He sits up straighter. “So you decided to go for it.”

 

“Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “I pulled up my orgo grade by _a lot_. I mean, it’s gonna be tough regardless. But - I dunno. I want to try. I want to see if I can get into neurosurgery. You know . . .”

 

He knows. Her mom.

 

“That’s amazing. I’m sure you’ll get in.” She’d been frantic about organic chemistry, during sophomore year. To the point that she didn’t even want to come home for spring break. That, he muses to himself now, coupled with everything that was going on with Dad at the time, probably sealed the deal between them.

 

“Thanks, Peter,” she says warmly, and her smile just sets his heart at ease, like he knew it would.

 

“Um - I’m applying to law school.”

 

“Oh wow. I thought - you know, psych major -”

 

“I was. I mean, I still am. But you can be any major to go to law school.”

 

She smiles. “That’s really great Peter.”

 

“Yeah the firm I interned at - they say they’ll give me an offer after law school. I mean, if I pass the bar.”

 

“You interned at a law firm? That’s awesome.”

 

He nods, proud. “Yeah. Since sophomore year. It was really cool. And helpful.” He leaves out why it was helpful – why, he’s not really sure. He just doesn’t want to get into all that, what happened sophomore year. How Dad randomly and suddenly wanted custody time with Owen. How Mom had to hire an attorney to fight him – how Peter ended up becoming an intern at that law firm to help out. How all the drama inexplicably ended, with Dad dropping off the face of the planet again, just as he had so randomly shown up. It’s so hard to explain when, while he understands the objective facts about his father’s condition, he’s still in the midst of trying to comprehend it all himself.

 

So he switches the subject. “But I don’t know if I really want to go there.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“They’re good people. But I was thinking of moving on. You know. Maybe try somewhere else. New York City.”

 

At the mention of New York City, Lara Jean’s face softens wistfully. A sudden wash of fondness for her goes through him – followed quickly by the recognition that this was a mistake. But he’s not sure if he means coming here, or breaking up with her in the first place.

 

“Um, I dunno if you still keep in touch with Kitty?” He nods. Their relationship also just wasn’t the same. But there’ll be the occasional comment or like on Instagram, a how-you-doing via messages. “Margot and Ravi got engaged. They’re getting married this summer.”

 

“Whoa, are you kidding me? That’s fantastic.” He’d always liked Ravi.

 

“Complete shock,” Lara Jean says. “They FaceTimed us on Thanksgiving. They haven’t decided if they’re going to do a Korean one or an Indian one. Or even where. But it’s going to be amazing, whether it’s in Birmingham or here.”

 

“Wow. That’s great, Lara Jean congrats.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

They sit there for a while longer, just enjoying the silence of each other’s company. When Lara Jean stifles a yawn, he looks at his phone, embarrassed.

 

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry Covey -“

 

“Don’t be. It was nice to catch up,” she says, quickly. But then she yawns fully and they share a laugh.

 

“I better get going,” he says, jerking his head towards his car.

 

“You haven’t slept,” she says, alarmed. “You can’t drive back like this.”

 

“No, I’m great. I’ll just grab a coffee on the way – ”

 

“No, at least let me make you a pot -” She stops, winces. “Ugh, if we only had any left. We didn’t do the grocery run yet.”

 

He smiles, rueful. “Maybe next time.”

 

Lara Jean looks at him. Her gaze is slightly narrowed - not suspiciously, but as if puzzling him out. It almost makes him duck his head - it’s the same expression she’d give him back when they were younger. Like she saw completely through the devil-may-care act, right at him.

 

“You back home for Christmas break?” she asks.

 

“Uh, yeah.”

 

“I’ll take you out for coffee then,” she says, and he grins. She has changed, he thinks, but in a good way.

 

“All right,” he agrees. He stands up from the steps - wonders if he should do something. Shake her hand? Kiss her cheek? It’s weird. All of his other ex-girlfriends, they kind of went scorched earth on him. Gen – forget about it. Melissa goes out of her way to avoid not just him, but everybody in his friend group. Casey, he supposes, is the most civil, but then again, they didn’t date very long, either.

 

Lara Jean makes the decision for him - she extends her fist for a bump. He chuckles, then obliges. “I’ll text you, Covey,” he says, turning to leave.

 

“Later, Peter Kavinsky,” she calls.

 

When he turns the car past her stoop, she’s still sitting there, watching the sun beginning to rise with a sleepy half-smile on her face, waiting for the new day.

 

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one! more! to! go!


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sweeping exits, or offstage lines  
> Could make me feel bitter, or treat you unkind.

As Peter passes by, he lifts two fingers, taps them to his forehead. Lara Jean feels her face scrunch up into a giggle as she does the same in reply – he smiles, shakes his head at her, and then the Jeep goes down the road, towards the intersection.

 

The cocoon of warmth that had enveloped her the moment she saw him exit the car starts to fade – so does her smile. It’s suddenly cold on the stoop.

 

She waits until Peter’s Jeep makes the turn, out of sight, before she gathers their empty mugs and plate of cookies and heads back into the apartment. She takes slow, quiet steps up to her floor – nudges the unlocked door open with her foot, turns the deadbolt when she gets back in. Then she makes her way to the tiny kitchen, puts away the cookies in a Tupperware – Sav and Aly will definitely want some, and she’s not one to waste a plate of perfectly good cookies. She places the Tupperware next to the container full of Keurig cups – full, because they made the grocery run yesterday – and leans against the counter, arms crossed, still in her coat.

 

Lara Jean doesn’t understand what on earth possessed her to agree to seeing Peter – randomly, in the middle of the night, for the first time in almost two years. She’d gotten the call, didn’t even register at first who was calling, or what time it even was – and . . . and . . .

 

Aly would say she lost her damn mind. And maybe she did. Because she offered to see him over Christmas break. For coffee, for god’s sakes, like they were just casual friends who do that on a regular basis. Not . . . not like how they are.

 

Or rather, used to be.

 

She hasn’t thought of him in ages. She’s pretty sure he hasn’t thought of her, either. Yeah, they would check in via text sometimes – and sometimes, something would happen, like she’d watch something on Netflix, or a student would make a joke in class, and she’d think – _Peter would think that’s funny_ – but those occurrences were few and far between.

 

Oh, sure, when they first broke up, she cried a lot – wallowed with ice cream and lots of stress baking – but it wasn’t like the times they broke up in high school. Those times were because of insecurities, or hang-ups, just trivial drama in the grand scheme of things. When they broke up in college . . . well, she knew, fundamentally, they did the right thing. The only thing they could do.

 

And now?

 

All she knows now is that it felt good to talk to him again, to catch up. That there’s this strange feeling overtaking her – like she’s been lying on her arm in a weird position, and suddenly shifted and realized it’s fallen asleep. It’s like the rush of sensation that immediately follows – uncomfortable, hurts even at points – but the pinpricks, crawling through her, down to her fingertips, remind her the limb is still alive.

 

That her blood is still beating, through her.

 

And just as she yawns, rubbing the back of her neck, she thinks, unbidden, _This was a mistake._ When they were younger, and fake dating, she’d told him it was unhealthy – to go running back to your ex, to go talking to your ex, at their every whim. And isn’t that what she’s doing now? What she _just_ did?

 

It’s all so complicated, and weird, and confusing, and hypocritical even, and she shouldn’t be thinking about this, she should be concentrating on getting into med school, but now everything is upended again, whirling all around her . . . Lara Jean yawns again.

 

 _Oh, I need to sleep._ She’ll think in the morning – early afternoon, rather. Whenever she manages to wake up. She’ll think about it later, deal with it all, later.

 

She shrugs out of her coat finally, and heads past Aly’s and Savannah’s rooms to her own – quietly opens her bedroom door, hangs her coat on the hook next to her bathrobe. Then, as gingerly as possible, she slides into the warmth of the bed, turns on her side so she’s facing the desk.

 

From behind her, the covers rustle – a familiar nuzzle tickles the back of her neck. “Hey,” comes the murmur, thick with sleep. “Thought I heard you talking to someone.” Then, a mock-sternly, as he squeezes her around the waist, “You need your sleep, Lara Jean Covey.”

 

Lara Jean’s heart seems to be pounding in her chest – deafening, deep, but slow, in her ears. Like she’s slowly waking up from a dream. She doesn’t think she can speak. But she turns around, anyway.

 

The lie comes easily, her voice calm. “I was just practicing for my interviews. It was no one,” she says, looking at his face, his closed eyes.

 

She brushes his eyelids with her lips. He opens them sleepily, big baby browns framed with thick lashes, and smiles at her, dimples deepening. 

 

Then, teasingly, to hide her nerves, she whispers, “Just go back to sleep, John Ambrose McClaren.”

 

-End-


End file.
